


you never know the top ‘till you get too low

by mirrorfade



Series: the reaper grins [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Cannibalism, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-03-22 00:34:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3708667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirrorfade/pseuds/mirrorfade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most of the templars turned on the mages during the attack on the Circle. A few of them stayed behind to protect everyone – even the blood mages. Idunna ruins her best robes and feels obliged to save a templar’s life. And in the background, the city burns. </p><p>Just another day in Kirkwall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Imagine Dragon’s _So Sorry_. TW for nongraphic rape, violence, and misogyny. There will be body horror later on. 
> 
> This version of Hawke is a psychopath. Idunna is not. They both have trouble with emotions.

When the sky splits open and bleeds magic, Idunna thinks, _finally_. Disaster has been in the air for years now, a horse at the gates just waiting to _break_ , and trample whoever stands in the way. Crush their bodies into dust. Everyone knows that it’s coming, they just don’t know when, or what shape the dying will come in. 

There’s screaming when the Chantry explodes. 

Idunna just sighs and thinks, _finally_.

At least she gets to see it coming.

**

Before that, Idunna makes friends with a templar. 

She fucks a few of them on the side too, for favors and protection, but doesn’t particularly _like_ those ones. 

This is different. She gets drunk with Ser Miranda. They play Wicked Grace while Idunna’s dog paws at Ser Miranda’s armored boots, the cards spread out on Idunna’s cot. “You’re an odd woman,” Idunna says one night, before things go completely tits up. “Most people want me on my back by now. You even brought the wine.”

Ser Miranda shrugs. She’s a little older than Idunna, with the dusky sort of skin that makes her origins hard to spot. Another Kirkwall mutt going up in the ranks. The hair might be Rivani, though. Black as sin, Idunna might say, if she were back in the Rose, and just as sweet. Ser Miranda might be pretty out of armor. 

Not that Idunna will say so. She doesn’t particularly want to fuck Ser Miranda. They have a quiet sort of repartee. As it stands, Idunna can almost speak her mind. They have come to an understanding. 

This is not the same as knowing each other, but one makes do. Why complicate that any further? Lovers tend to get bored with each other, and that would be an unfortunate thing indeed. Who would bring her wine then?

“My father was a whore,” Idunna continues. “I’m not unused to the idea. My mother bought him first, you know. Before they knew each other. It always made for a good tavern story.”

Ser Miranda shrugs again and pulls a card out of her sleeve. Casual as can be, she adds it to her hand. “My mother tried that for a while.”

“Working the game?”

“She served drinks at the Rose. Sex paid much better.”

There are other places, but at least the Rose is clean. Idunna wonders if she knew Ser Miranda’s mother, or at least heard stories about her. A lot of whores are long lived, still working in the back rooms. Some people will pay top dollar for a practiced hand. “Did she stay?”

“No.” Ser Miranda lays out her cards on Idunna’s bed. “She got fired.”

Idunna raises an eyebrow. “The Rose fired her?”

“She wasn’t popular.”

“Not pretty?”

Ser Miranda prods her cards, waiting for Idunna to put hers down. “Not the way they wanted.”

She doesn’t elaborate further. But oh, Idunna knows there’s a story there. One day, she’ll bribe someone into finding out for her. 

_If_ she survives that long. 

Life is fun like that in the Gallows. It keeps a girl on her toes. 

Idunna puts her cards down, frowning. Her hand is woefully bad. “Now why would you go and do that, Ser Templar?”

“Do what?” Ser Miranda asks, as if she hasn’t been stacking the deck all night. 

“I’m told it’s a sin to cheat at cards,” Idunna murmurs. “But who am I to know the Maker’s will?”

“Andraste loves the clever,” Ser Miranda informs her. “Everybody else is dead.”

**

This was before things started getting really bad, back when the templars thought themselves merciful and actually let the mages out of their cages. Let them out to see the sun and breathe free air. How kind, how merciful. How very _sweet_.

Of course, just because the doors aren’t barred doesn’t mean they’re _safe_. Even being in the library is fraught. Idunna flips through one of the tomes casually, and tries her best to ignore the hissing apostate at her side. 

Grace isn’t the newest addition to the Circle. Oh no. She’s been here for a long time, fresh out of solitary and the latest beating from the templars. Too abrasive, too smart for her own damn good. And she’s pretty too, which is even worse. Dark hair and those striking, furious eyes, memorable in the worst sort of way. Grace is very easy to hate. 

It would be smarter to avoid her entirely, but Idunna gets bored without a little bit of danger undercutting her life. She’s always been a tad self-destructive. 

“This is horrible,” Grace hisses, eyes flashing under that ugly tattoo of hers. It’s almost the same color as the bruises around her throat. Time in solitary hasn’t done her any favors. It’s only made her louder. 

You can’t be loud in the Gallows. The templars don’t like it. 

Grace slams her book down on the table, and stands up to begin her pacing. 

This is another of the bad habits that Grace has picked up from solitary. All that wild pacing. She does furious laps around the library table, scattering books and bits of parchment underfoot. Crushing the written word under her furious slippers. Last time she knocked over an inkpot and stained the carpet. Made a big mess, yes she did. Sticky black ink everywhere, staining like blood. You can still see it stuck in the cracks on the floor. 

Grace takes out her rage on the books, but everyone knows what she really wants to kill. It’s not like the templars are stupid, so they hurt Grace a little worse than everyone else. And why not? She can’t help but make a fuss. Of course they’re going to beat her down for that. 

There’s this thing called subtlety that people are trying these days. Grace hasn’t learned it.

Idunna thins her mouth, and picks up Honey so that Grace won’t step on the dog. “Stop that.”

“How can you stand this?” Grace demands. “With your makeup and your fucking _dog_.”

Idunna does not glare at her. She’s better than that. “Keep your voice down. Please.”

The templars are staring at them. 

“You must love it here,” Grace hisses. Nearly spitting. “How many templars are you fucking?”

No one can be this naïve. Idunna bounces the puppy on her lap. Honey sniffs at her robes. “If you keep yelling, they’re going to make you sorry. That’s not a threat. That’s just how it is.”

Grace backhands her across the face. 

**

This gets Grace sent down to solitary again, to think about what she’s done. 

It doesn’t help. It just makes her worse. 

Some people never learn. Now the only question is whether Grace will work up the nerve to kill somebody before the templars finally do make her Tranquil. And it’s not like she has any friends in here. 

Apparently none of the templars want to fuck her. The rumors say she bites, and nobody’s knocked her teeth out yet. So what can you do?

Idunna presses a fistful of ice against her face. It’s hardly her first bruise in this place. 

**

Later, one of the templars that Idunna’s been fucking comes around and tries to kiss it better. He’s in a romantic mood. Idunna isn’t. She smiles through it just the same. 

“Are you all right?” he asks, in the middle of it. 

Idunna rolls her eyes. She’s down on her belly, so there’s no way he can see. “Just fine, darling. As you were.”

He gets back to it. 

When it’s done, he leaves her another kiss. No gifts this time. More’s the pity. Idunna lets Honey back into her room and lies down with the dog. Honey sniffs at the cot with a whine, before resting her nose against Idunna’s cheek.

“That’s sex,” Idunna tells the puppy. “That’s how momma pays her dues.”

Honey sneezes on her. 

**

If she’s being honest about it. Idunna’s life has been drawn down to two very specific tasks. If she performs well at them, then things in the Circle are almost pleasant. If she fails at either, then Idunna knows very well that she’ll be dead – or stuck in that place where she prays for but can’t find it. 

The Tranquil don’t usually kill themselves. It takes a tad more willpower than they possess. But sometimes, sometimes they work up to it. 

That’s not a good way to die. One tries to avoid things like that. So Idunna protects Bethany Hawke and collets templars like flowers, pressing them between her legs until they shudder and spend themselves there. She’s very good at these two things. 

Her life depends on it, after all. 

Idunna has always been a survivor. Her biggest fault is that sometimes, she overreaches. But no matter what anyone spits at her, Idunna has never been afraid of hard work. She’s fought for everything she has. Who cares it if isn’t blood that coats her hands when the day’s out?

Besides, even if she fails, Hawke has promised to cut her head off. And isn’t that just a comforting thought?

**

Grace comes out of solitary with disheveled robes and a brand new chip on her shoulder. No one is surprised except for the templars, who still believe that beating someone unconscious is the same as making them see the light. Maybe it works some of the time, but it turns people like Grace into fighters. Flattens people down until there’s nothing but the hatred left, and a direct line to the cause. Of course Grace is going to kill someone. It’s just a matter of when.  
Idunna sees her in the library, face swollen purple with bruises almost the same color as her tattoo. 

That’s what you get for making a scene. 

Idunna puts Honey on her lap. The puppy whines, chewing at the edge of the table. Anxious and squirmy. Honey wants to run and chew on things and smell _everything_ , as Idunna is told that puppies do. But she can’t risk letting Honey out of her sight or the templars might kill her. She caught one with his sword out, once. It took a great deal of persuasion to make him put it away again. 

Favoritism, people spit. As if she hasn’t _earned_ this. 

Grace is talking to one of the books again. Swearing at it. Running hands through her hair and then slapping at the pages, as if they’ve insulted her. Idunna closes her eyes and counts to ten. This is not her concern. It’s not. 

Something heavy crashes to the ground, a pile of books kicking up dust. Grace kicks them in turn. 

“Stop that,” Idunna hisses. “You’re making a scene.”

And it’s not like the books are going to fight back. Grace doesn’t seem to realize this yet. 

“Why shouldn’t I make a scene?” Grace demands. “Why shouldn’t I make some _noise_ ”

Idunna scowls at her. “Because they’ll punish all of us, you fool. _Shut up_.”

“Why should that matter to you, whore?”

As if anyone _likes_ being beaten by a templar. Idunna flicks at Honey’s ears, focusing on the puppy instead of Grace. Direct eye contact will look like a challenge, which will only make Grace louder. “Do you want to be Tranquil? Because they will make you Tranquil.”

Grace makes an ugly face, and kicks another book. “Maybe they will. Maybe they’ll fucking _try_.”

“If they do, try not to take anyone else with you,” Idunna murmurs. “Some of us want to live.”

“Oh?” Grace picks up one of the books, shaking ruined pages out of it. “So how’s that going for you?”

 _Bitch_.

Idunna doesn’t dignify that with an answer.

**

Ser Miranda comes down that night with a bottle of wine, and no cups. She sits down on the floor by Idunna’s cot, and they pass the bottle between them as Honey runs furious circles around the room. The puppy is growing too fast, legs turning gangly and long. She howls if she can’t run, but there’s nowhere to go except Idunna’s cell. So Honey gallops around in circles and rebounds off the walls. It might be funny if it weren’t so pathetic. 

“Can you take her outside?” Idunna asks finally. “She’s crying a lot. People complain.”

Ser Miranda tips the bottle back all the way and takes a long drink. 

“It wouldn’t have to be for a long time.” Idunna murmurs. “Just for a little bit. Please? She’s just a baby. She doesn’t know how to be quiet.”

It’s one of those things that a mage learns early, and a woman learns even sooner. You have to be quiet even when things get bad, or someone bad will notice you. 

“I can try,” Ser Miranda says after a while. She passes the bottle to Idunna. “But not right now.”

“I could make it up to you.”

Ser Miranda gives her a thin smile. “Sure you could. Doesn’t stop me from being watched.”

And while Ser Miranda might share her wine, she’s not prepared to lose her sunshield over Idunna’s whims. 

Idunna drinks from the bottle, closing her eyes so the taste will last a little longer. “At least you’re honest, for a templar.”

“Not many of us lie.”

“No,” Idunna says. “Most of you don’t care.”

Ser Miranda shrugs. “Is that meant to insult me?”

“No. That’s just how it is.”

**

A few weeks later, Ser Miranda does manage to smuggle Honey out into the city. She tells Idunna that she ran the puppy up and down the streets, until finally Honey collapsed in happy exhaustion. “She has the energy of one of those halla the Dalish love,” Ser Miranda tells her later. “I bet that dog could run forever.”

But not in the Gallows. That part goes unsaid. 

Idunna takes the sleeping puppy in her arms, and lies down on the cot with her. “Can you help me tonight?”

Ser Miranda pauses. “With what?”

“Someone is coming for me. If you could patrol here, then maybe…”

Then it’s not Idunna’s fault that she can’t fuck the man. Nobody can fight circumstance, or which templar patrols where. Idunna certainly can’t help that and so no one can get mad and punish her. 

“I just want to sleep tonight,” Idunna murmurs. “Please. I just want to sleep.”

Ser Miranda nods. “All right.”

So Idunna holds Honey close to her chest, and tries her best to avoid the demons. Ser Miranda stands guard in the hallway, and none of the other templars come slinking in asking for work. Because what they want is work, after all. It has to be done a certain way, for certain rewards. Sometimes you just have to steel your face and fuck a man so he won’t kill you. It’s very simple. 

She doesn’t know exactly what Ser Miranda is getting out of this just yet. There will be a favor down the road. Idunna just hopes it won’t be the thing that kills her. 

**

It’s decided that keeping a group of young mages locked up all day and night isn’t the best idea when it come to conflict resolution. Grace hasn’t been the only one starting fistfights. The apprentices know better than to throw magic at each other, but that doesn’t stem the frustration or torrent of raging hormones. 

Teenagers. They’re either fighting or fucking their brains out. The infirmary has been filled with bloody noses and bruised egos, not all of them templar caused. 

It’s the newest fad sweeping the Gallows. Brawling between the bookshelves. All they’re missing is a few barrels of wine and they’d have themselves a proper party. 

Maker, Idunna misses the Rose. 

However, the templars don’t like this. It offends them that the mages are punching each other rather than getting beaten under templar fists, as is proper. Goes against tradition, that does. 

How scandalous. 

Apparently, a few of the templars have decided that the best solution to this problem is to have the mages learn proper staff fighting techniques. 

Or, in other words, beat the hell out of each other with sticks. 

Idunna eyes the practice staff with distaste. This is going to be the butt of a tavern joke in a few days, she thinks. The Knight-Captain, looking very put out, has lined them up in the Gallows courtyard, underneath the sun and shine of the slave statues. Idunna stands there with Honey nosing at her feet, and a group of uneasy looking mages at her side. Most of them are younger than her. She knows most of their names and even likes a few of them. Alain is quiet, but kind. Erza braided strands of blue silk into a collar for Honey, and cried when she slipped it over the puppy’s head. Silla is tiny, even for an elf, and hides her swollen belly underneath bulky robes. Whether she wants the baby or not, she’s pregnant at fourteen. One of the youngest Harrowed mages in the whole Gallows. 

Such a sweet girl, Silla is. Idunna tries not to feel protective of her. Feelings like that are dangerous, and Silla is not strong as an ally. She has nothing to offer. No hidden talents or secrets pried out of careless lips. 

No. Silla has nothing to offer. 

Except, perhaps, a soft hand on Honey’s back. 

She loves that damn dog, Idunna thinks. 

Honey likes Silla too. Sometimes Honey goes and sits on Silla’s feet, when they’re studying in the library. Quiet little gestures. If she thinks no one is looking, then Silla will kick off her slippers and rub Honey’s back with her toes. 

In another world, someone like Silla might actually get down on the floor and wrestle with the dog. 

Not in this one, though. Silla looks utterly confused holding a stick in her hands. 

The rest of the mages are quiet and meek, except for when they’re not, and so they’ll learn to hit each other properly. 

Except for Grace, of course. Grace already knows how to hit people. It could be said that Grace really _likes_ hitting people, but Idunna would never be so crude as to say that out loud. 

Unlike _someone_ , Idunna is a lady. 

“All right,” the Knight-Captain says. “Get in line.”

Idunna gives Grace a suspicious look. Somehow, they’ve ended up next to each other. “Bitch,” Idunna says, and makes herself smile as sweetly as she can, “if you hit me in the face, I will fucking end you.”

“Shut up, whore.”

Idunna keeps her face looking nice and pretty. “Knight-Captain, if I may? Yes. Ah, I wonder if we might….postpone this? None of us are….properly dressed, you could say.”

Anything to get out of physical training, dear Maker. The fact that the excuse happens to be true is just a bonus. All of them, Idunna included, are wearing the heavy Circle robes and sweating furiously beneath the layers of linen. Not the sort of thing you want to wear when swinging a big stick around. The only mage in the Circle who has proper fighting armor is Bethany Hawke – who is suspiciously absent. 

Probably because Bethany already knows how to fight. None of the templars like to remember that. It rubs their noses in failure, knowing that an apostate survived so long in Kirkwall. That, and Mistress Hawke has threatened everyone so much that even _looking_ in Baby Hawke’s direction has become a perilous undertaking. 

Knight-Captain Cullen eyes her up and down. He looks decidedly unhappy about something. Possibly her existence. “I’m sure you can adapt.”

Fucker. Idunna blinks at him slowly, putting on her sweetest face. The one she wears when she gets down on her knees to praise Andraste when Meredith and her ilk are spying. “If I tear these, I’ll have nothing else to wear, Ser.”

“You’re covered in dog hair,” Ser Cullen points out, tightly. He holds himself very stiffly, as if he’s already on guard against something. As if just breathing the same air as a mage invites the demons in. 

Hah. As if it were that simple.

Idunna glances down at Honey, still rolling around on the dirt. The puppy barks at Ser Cullen. A few of the mages smile. “She’s a lady. She doesn’t hit me with sticks.”

“The idea is to avoid getting hit by a stick, Enchanter.”

“Idunna knows all about handling weapons,” Grace drawls. “Don’t you?”

 _Bitch_. At least be clever if you’re going to insult someone. 

Ser Cullen’s eyes go hard. “Get in line. Both of you.”

“Yes _ser_ ,” Grace hisses. 

Someone is going to kill that women, Idunna thinks. Someone is going to mess her up. It might not even be a templar. Grace is the sort of person who invites destruction down on everything just by existing. Anyone standing close will get burned too. 

She gets in line with the others because the Knight-Captain is glaring. There’s something about anger that you can see even through the templar helmet. _What did I do to you?_ Idunna wonders, because she can’t recall ever refusing him anything, or even speaking to him. 

Then she remembers that mad little Keran is one of his underlings, and Idunna understands. 

**

It goes fine until the Knight-Captain pairs them off to spar. Idunna can follow the motions of the drills, even if the staff is clumsy in her hands. She’s never been a fighter, never actually fought demons except inside her head. Some of the other mages have been in battle.

Grace, for instance. 

So it really shouldn’t surprise anyone when Grace smacks Idunna in the chest with her staff, and then flips her down hard. 

Idunna hits the ground with a grunt, the staff clattering out of her hands. The pain smarts. She _can’t breathe_.

Grace kicks Idunna’s staff away, twisting her own in some fancy motion. “You’re dead, bitch.”

Except of course that she’s not, but Idunna doesn’t feel like pointing that out when she’s down on the ground. She pushes herself up on her hands, until Grace raps her on the head. 

The blunted tip of the staff rests against Idunna’s shoulder, a warning.  
Idunna holds very still, and does not meet Grace’s eyes. 

“Nothing to say?” Grace hisses. “You’re always so _clever_ , Idunna.”

If she says anything, let alone something _clever_ , then Idunna knows that Grace will take the staff and smash it into her face. 

The Knight-Captain, who hates her, won’t notice until after it’s all been done. 

Grace prods her with the staff. “Well?”

Idunna inclines her head, eyes firmly on the ground. Like a good mage. “May I stand?”

“ _May_ you—!” Grace bites off something horrible, and laughs. 

She isn’t laughing when Honey bites her. 

**

“All I’m saying, is she should have fucking seen it coming,” Idunna mutters later, when she’s back in the relative safety of her room, with the door that does not lock. She has Honey tight in her arms. “She was going to hurt me. And mabari, they’re just _like that_.”

Ser Miranda just looks at her. Whatever expression is on her face, it’s not sympathy. 

“They can’t take my dog,” Idunna hisses. “She was just protecting me. That bitch would’ve bashed my skull in.”

“I have explained things,” Ser Miranda says, quietly. “But if it happens again, they’ll kill her in front of you.”

The puppy whines. Idunna swallows hard. She’s not going to cry. No point wasting time on that. She’s smart, she’s always been smart, she can find a way out of this. There’s always an angle. Someone who needs what she can give, and in exchange they’ll make everything simple again. Smooth over the jagged edges of any argument. “Who do I need to fuck?”

“Mage—”

“No, no, I understand,” Idunna says quickly. “Just tell me who. I can survive just about anything, you know. I used to be a professional. And the people in here, they’re not as bad as you think. Really, templars are just like everyone else. It only hurts if you _let them in your head_.”

And she’s better than that. Of course. 

Ser Miranda pulls her helmet back on, so her eyes are hidden. “Be silent, mage, be still and silent and maybe they’ll forget what you are.”

Sometimes you can’t fight, she doesn’t say, but Idunna understands just the same. 

Sometimes, the only thing you can do is survive. 

Ser Miranda leaves after that, and Idunna holds Honey close to her chest. 

**

Grace dies soon after that, along with Krista and Anik and a lot of the younger mages who believed, sincerely believed, that they could make a difference. Even some templars joined in on the madness. They died just the same, mad and screaming and covered in blood while the Champion laughed. 

Hawke came and killed them all. 

Of course she did. They took her sister. 

This is why Idunna stays up at night and waits, silently, for Hawke to come and kill her like all the rest. Because she failed, Idunna did, at the one thing that’s kept her whole. The one thing that Hawke spared her for. Watch the baby Hawke, keep her protected and safe and _untouched_. And then some fools get ahold of her. 

It’s not enough to kill them, Idunna knows. 

She thinks Ser Miranda will take Honey, maybe. At least then the dog will live. 

Someone ought to live.

It’s Keran guarding the door that night. Idunna wraps her robes tight, and pads out to see him. He doesn’t wear his helm inside, for whatever reason. Idunna can see the paleness and how he twitches, how his hands shake and the baby face makes him look so _wrong_ , because he’s not young. Not anymore. She made him that way. 

Keran starts. This is the same as flinching. “What do you want?”

Idunna is careful to make sure that her breasts are covered, so he won’t think to hurt her. She tried to seduce him once, when she first got back. It didn’t end well for either of them. “I have something to tell you.”

“What?”

“I’m not sorry,” she says. “For what I did to you. I think it’s the worst thing I’ve ever done. I’m not a fighter, you know. I’ve never killed anyone. But I sent your friends out like that, and….”

And. 

Idunna tips her head to the side. “I didn’t believe what they did. About having power and letting the demons loose. I just thought it would be better if you didn’t exist.”

Keran stares at her. “If I didn’t…?”

“If there weren’t any templars,” Idunna explains, because someone should explain. It was never about him, specifically. “So I’m not sorry, because I still believe that. But you were the worst thing I ever did.”

She cannot apologize to him and mean it. The words would stick on her teeth, utterly pointless. Idunna won’t spend her time on useless things. 

Besides, Keran might be the last person she ever speaks to. It’s bad luck to lie when you’re about to die. The Maker takes notice, or so they say. 

“I just wanted you to know that,” Idunna says, and pulls the door shut behind her as quickly as she can. She doesn’t want to know what Keran looks like when he’s crying. 

**

Hawke does come, as Idunna knows she will. She’s awake when the Champion slips inside, dressed in terrible black armor and swinging a Dalish lantern. There’s blood on the lantern and it casts ugly shadows over everything. The glass in the lantern is blue, and makes the world look more like the Fade than it ought to. 

Idunna doesn’t scream. She just holds Honey close, and pets her. The puppy yawns, nosing against her hand. “Don’t kill the dog. Please. She hasn’t done anything.”

Hawke sets the lantern down on the floor. 

There’s no anger on her face. Nothing at all. 

Idunna just sighs. 

“No fight in you, woman?” Hawke rumbles. 

“People ask me that all the time,” Idunna murmurs. “As if I’ve killed anyone.”

She’s never been a fighter. Not really. All those times before, she was just pretending. Puffing up her chest and putting on airs. Idunna sees that now. She understands. This was never her world to conquer. 

Pity she didn’t recognize it earlier. It might have saved her some pain. 

“You might as well get on with it,” Idunna adds. 

There’s a moment then where Hawke just stares at her. Her face looks ghostly in the blue shadows. A spirit of the Fade come to taunt her – or a demon feigning pity before it digs its claws in. 

“Some of them were sorry when I killed them,” Hawke says after a while. “They thought I’d help if they made me listen.”

They probably didn’t want to die, Idunna thinks. Most people don’t. And even templars can beg, if pushed hard enough. Sometimes she forgets that in the Gallows, that the templars can hurt just the same as everyone else. 

“That woman, Grace, she went mad here.” Hawke blinks, owlishly. 

Idunna just stares at her. “We all go mad here.”

“Yes. That’s why it’s going to burn.” Hawke picks up the lantern, holding it up in front of her face so that Idunna can’t see her eyes. “Protect my sister, woman. Or I’ll make you hurt in ways you can’t imagine.”

“You’re not going to kill me?” Idunna manages. 

“Not yet.” Hawke taps the lantern, making it sway. “You’re one of my things. For now.”

 _One of my things_. Idunna closes her eyes. Desperation is making her stupid. “Do you love her? Your sister? Or do you just own her like everything else?”

There’s a long silence. Then: “I want to love her. I am trying very hard to love her. Perhaps you can understand that, woman.”

**

Then, not so long after, the Chantry burns. And the Circle burns with it. 

**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood magic proves useful, templars plot, and Idunna wants a drink. So bad. 
> 
> TW for gore, descriptions of a miscarriage, and pedophilia. Unhappy things ahead.

Idunna is sleeping when her door creaks open. Armored boots clank over the floor and a templar stops before her cot. Idunna keeps her eyes closed. Sometimes you can pretend to be sleeping and they’ll leave you alone. Even so, she threads her fingers through Honey’s collar. Just in case. Idunna can take anything a templar can think of, but the moment the dog comes to her aid is the moment that things will get bloody. 

Besides, someone like her can’t fight back. Surviving the night means taking some bruises in the dark every once and awhile. 

“Mage.” The templar kicks the floor. “Get up.”

Idunna cracks an eye. “It’s the middle of the night, Ser Miranda.”

The templar woman just looks at her. She might be frowning. It’s hard to tell behind that helmet. “Get up, mage. And be quiet about it.”

Her voice is soft and just a little dangerous. Idunna flicks her hand at the lone candle in the room. It casts soft shadows over everything and makes Ser Miranda’s armor gleam. She’s standing at attention, Ser Miranda is, hands clasped tight at her sides. All nice and proper.

Well then. Are they finally going to fuck? Idunna props her chin up on her elbow. Sometimes she looks at the silhouette of Ser Miranda’s shoulders and thinks, _that’s not so bad_. A mage could do much worse. After all, Ser Miranda is pretty in that rough sort of way, and she’s never once beaten Idunna. Never even touched her. There are worse things. 

Except, of course, that Ser Miranda wants something else tonight. She gestures with a hand, impatiently. “Get up, mage. Now.”

Idunna huffs, and kicks her blanket off. Honey whines, concerned with the change. People bustling about in the middle of the night usually means there’s going to be blood, and the dog doesn’t like that. “Fine. I’m up.”

Ser Miranda nods. “Come on. Quietly. Leave the dog.”

“She’ll cry if I leave her. Someone will hear.”

Idunna can hear Ser Miranda swearing under her breath. “Then bring the damn dog.”

“Are you going to explain what’s going on, or should I guess?”

“Be silent.”

Idunna huffs, pushing her feet into tattered sandals. Honey sniffs at her toes. “As you wish, _Mistress_ Templar.”

“Don’t call me that.” Ser Miranda pauses a moment, then takes a deep breath. “I am sorry.”

Is she? Idunna just shrugs, and wishes she had a warmer robe to put on. It’s freezing outside. The frost on the walls isn’t magic born and they’re not allowed to have fires in their rooms. Even Idunna’s one little candle was a privilege earned from getting down on her knees and giving out her service with a smile. It’s a novelty around here. “What do you want? It must be important if you’re dragging little old me out of bed.”

Ser Miranda cracks the door to check the hallway, then gestures for Idunna to follow. “You know about bleeding.”

“Everyone knows about bleeding.”

“Shhh. Come now.”

Ser Miranda leads her down the hall, dodging shadows until they come to a different section of rooms. It’s closer to the apprentice dorms, where the younger mages are housed, and the favorite hunting ground of several especially hated templars. Idunna hugs her arms, shivering as Ser Miranda fusses with the lock. 

A mage isn’t meant to have keys. Even touching one will get you beaten. There was a boy a few months back who stole a ring full of them, and—

And. 

Yeah. 

There are a lot of things that you don’t talk about in the Gallows. A lot of people who just….go away, and never come back. 

“Inside,” Ser Miranda whispers. 

Idunna follows her in, Honey close at her heels. 

Inside, a small group of mages have gathered in a worried clump. Wide eyes dart to Ser Miranda and Idunna as they slip inside. This is where they keep the newly Harrowed mages. Just a bunch of children looking out of place and pathetic in their bedclothes. Some of them have cast wisps, little bundles of magic twinkling in their hands. It makes the blood on the floor look black.

Okay. Apparently Ser Miranda was being literal about the bleeding thing. Idunna runs her hands down the front of her robes so they won’t shake. “Who?”

One of the little mages points. 

There’s an elf girl slumped against the far wall, her robes all tangled up around her waist. Her ankles are sticking out, corpse-pale in the wisp-light. She’s breathing, Idunna can see, but might not be awake. Her chest rises and falls with a great shudder. Each breath like a sigh rattling past her teeth, mouth slightly parted.

Her name is Silla, Idunna thinks. The pregnant one. 

The blood is sticky black on the floor, splashed everywhere. Idunna takes a breath. “Get a fucking healer.”

“Can’t.” Ser Miranda kneels down next to Silla, touching her face. The girl doesn’t react at all. “They’re being watched.”

“Get one of them anyway,” Idunna hisses. Dear _Maker_ , this is not how she wanted to spend the night. She kneels down too, trying to keep her robes out of the blood. 

“They’ll tell Ser Alrik,” one of the mages whispers. Idunna’s eyes snap to him. The boy is hugging his knees to his chest. “They did last time.”

Idunna thinks of all the snake-eyed bastards she knows in the Gallows, and fights the urge to spit blasphemy in front of everyone like she wants to. Alrik, _Alrik_ , what are they going to do about Ser fucking Alrik? He’s got a reputation and seems to enjoy earning it. Makes all the pretty young girls Tranquil so they won’t cry when he fucks them. 

Apparently he skipped a step with this one. Hah. 

Idunna didn’t know he liked little kids too. It really shouldn’t surprise her. 

She wipes her mouth on the back of her hand, trying her best to ignore the other mages and their silent misery. “How old is she?”

Ser Miranda pulls off her helmet and sets it aside. “Fourteen.”

Fuck. 

Idunna grits her teeth. “I’m not a healer, you _know_ that.”

The girl is probably going to die in front of her. Silla’s eyes are wide and black, and very far gone. She’s probably in a better place, Idunna thinks, somewhere quiet and safe where the templars can’t get her. 

“You can stop the bleeding,” Ser Miranda says, ever so softly. 

Idunna opens her mouth to say something, but stops. Honey has crawled forward and tucked herself against Silla’s side. She rests her head on the girl’s chest, whining. And, ever so quietly, Silla raises up her hand and touches the dog’s ear. Not quite petting. 

Just a kid. Just a fucking kid. 

Idunna tips her head back as far as she can, so she won’t fucking cry. Really, it’s just the exhaustion. She hasn’t been sleeping well these days. It has to be that, because Idunna does not fucking _cry_. “Fine. _Fine._ ”

Blood magic can heal, despite what people say. It can mend instead of just breaking. It’s just not _pretty_ when it does. Idunna takes a deep breath, and then puts her hands on Silla’s belly. A good healer could do this without touching, without even _looking_ , but Idunna’s never been one of those. She can’t heal at all unless she kneels down in the thick of it, gets blood on her knees and stuck under her nails. It’s a character flaw. She’s never been good at keeping her distance, not when it matters.

Somehow, it’s not real unless she feels the blood against her own skin. The power, hot and sticky and so very _red_.

No matter how high she climbs, Idunna always finds herself back down on the ground. In the muck of it all. 

Hah. 

Idunna grits her teeth and _pulls_ at the magic. Silla’s insides are raw and weeping. Idunna thinks, _stop that_. She doesn’t have names for the things that are torn and shifted out of place, for the ache deep inside the girl’s body. But that’s the thing with blood magic, the little trick nobody tells you about. If you do it right, you don’t need to know how the flesh stitches together – you just need to know that what’s broken, and that it ought to be _whole_.

Then you _ask_. No, you don’t ask—you fucking _demand_ that the blood stop spurting, that the bones and flesh and spidery little veins knit themselves back up, and throw so much power at it that the body is too fucking scared to refuse. Idunna snarls, digging her nails into Silla’s belly, and _pulls_.

Blood snaps at her hands. 

Somewhere, a demon is laughing. They’re always laughing at her. 

Blood splatters against her face. So hot. Idunna tips her head back and tries very hard not to scream. 

Below her, Silla takes a deep, shuddering breath. Honey licks her face, until the girl finally blinks, and looks around. 

Idunna takes her hands back slowly. “It’s done.”

Ser Miranda closes her eyes for a long moment. 

“Auntie,” Silla murmurs, reaching out a hand. 

To Idunna’s shock, Ser Miranda takes it. “Hello, little one.”

Silla blinks at her, slowly. “It hurts.”

“I know.” Ser Miranda runs a hand through Silla’s dark curls. She’s careful about it, so that the gauntlets don’t cut Silla. “Can she sleep, mage?”

Idunna starts. “What? I don’t know. Probably.”

If she hasn’t died yet, she probably won’t. They wouldn’t be having this problem if someone had just gone out and gotten a proper healer. Apparently that’s not an option anymore. It worries Idunna that she doesn’t know why. Something has changed and no one has informed her of it.

That’s not good. Idunna hates surprises. 

“You should clean the blood up,” she adds, after a moment. 

The last thing they need is another templar screaming about demons, on top of everything else. 

“It will be done,” Ser Miranda tells her, still watching Silla. Her fucking _niece_. How does that even work?

Idunna is too tired for this bullshit. She reaches out to take Honey back, clutching the puppy to her chest. At least the dog isn’t covered in blood. At least she’s warm and soft, and doesn’t _want things_ in exchange for letting Idunna live. “And you’re getting me new robes, templar.”

She leaves Silla there, in the company of children barely past their Harrowing and a mess of sticky blood. It’s not my problem, Idunna tells herself that night. It’s not. She just stopped Silla from dying, which was the decent thing to do – for her fellow woman, and all that – and it doesn’t _mean_ anything. It’s not going to give her nightmares imagining the memory tearing Silla’s belly apart and falling from between her legs like all that blood. 

No. Idunna’s not going to dream about that. 

And if she wakes up screaming—if she wakes up with tears on her face, hands shaking, blood under her nails, with demons _laughing in the walls_ —well. It’s not like the dog is going to tell anyone. 

**

In the morning, Idunna finds a new set of robes outside her door. No bloodstains on those ones. She prods the fabric with a toe. Ser Miranda is nowhere in sight. Ser Keran, however, is lingering by the door, head hung. He doesn’t wear the helmet inside the Gallows. As such, anyone can see his eyes and the shadows there. 

He never learned how to guard his face. Nobody has bothered to explain how dangerous that is to him. 

Then again, no one sees Keran as a threat. He’s crazy, after all. Just not the kind that kills people. 

“You’re not supposed to leave your room at night, Enchanter.”

Idunna doesn’t smile at him. She just picks up her new robes and bundles them in her arms. The fabric is thick and soft. It might even be new. She runs her fingers along the seams, looking for tears and finding none. “I didn’t leave, Ser Keran. Because if I had, that would mean you weren’t very good at your job. And that’s not true, is it?”

He stares at her blankly. 

Are all the templars this thick? Maybe the demons made him that way—which means that in a lot of ways, Idunna did this to him. 

Most people would feel guilty about that, Idunna knows. She can’t quite manage it for him. 

She’s always been like that, unable to apologize with any sincerity. Oh, Idunna can say the words and make her face wear the proper mask, but she doesn’t _mean_ it. The words always fall a little short. Even if she is sorry somewhere deep inside her, Idunna can never make herself _say_ it. Whenever she tries, a lie comes out. Something pretty and polite, and very far from the truth. Idunna has always needed to say the proper thing, even if it’s not the _right_ thing. 

Like her mother always said—a character flaw. So it goes.

Idunna lowers her eyes. Be the good, meek little mage—she’d _never_ dream of insulting a templar, oh no. “You’re a good templar. Everyone says so.”

No one says that. Everyone laughs at Ser Keran, especially the other templars. 

Idunna bows her head to him. There’s no point in saying that to him. She doesn’t need another enemy in this place. “Ser Keran.”

She ducks back into her room before he can really think about what she’s said. 

**

The new robes fit just fine. Idunna burns the others. She doesn’t mind the blood, per say, but it’s already ruined the fabric. There’s no salvaging that mess, not without someone accusing her of blood magic again. Idunna has been in solitary before and she doesn’t want to return. She especially doesn’t want to be made Tranquil. So she burns the old robes and starts thinking up an excuse if someone wants to know where she got the new ones. 

Obviously she’ll have to say she fucked someone, but who? Idunna runs her hands over the new robes. She does like fabric. It’s soft, but a little tougher than silk, and dyed a deep blue color. A good set of robes. She can barter with one of the mages who can handle a needle for a set of hidden pockets and perhaps some embroidery on the sleeves. 

One of the templars has a wife who works as a seamstress, Idunna remembers. Maybe she did him a favor. Sure. She can say that. 

Maybe not one will ask, but she’ll have a reason just in case. 

Idunna pulls her boots on as Honey ambles around the room. “You were good, puppy. You were a very good girl last night.”

The dog didn’t cry at all, and she made Silla stay quiet. 

Honey whines. 

“I know you’re hungry. I’ll find you something soon.”

**

The day is shockingly normal after that. It seems like Silla and the others managed to clean the blood up without any of the templars noticing. Just another little accident swept into the corner. The Tranquil probably helped. If you ask nicely and emphasize the importance of secrecy, then they can be convinced to lend a hand. And no one works harder than those fuckers. Idunna really doesn’t know why they bother. 

Personally, Idunna plans on making everyone miserable if a templar finally does press a lyrium brand to her forehead. If there’s enough of her mind left after that, of course. 

Idunna goes out into the Gallows courtyard to sell runes, watched on all sides by templars.

Strangely enough, Hawke is waiting there for her. She’s wearing the black armor this time, no more stolen templar gear, and a heavy broadsword slung across her back. A group of her followers are lingering by the gates, but Hawke herself stands alone—except, of course, for the mabari. 

Honey goes bounding over to the bigger dog, barking and nipping at his feet. The older mabari sniffs at the puppy, and then bops her on the head. Then he gets down on the ground and they’re wrestling, growling and snapping at each other playfully. 

Idunna puts a good smile on her face and folds her hands over her belly. “Mistress Hawke.”

Hawke eyes her up and down with frank appraisal. “You’re looking pale, Idunna. Not sleeping well?”

“Someone keeps coming into my room at night,” Idunna informs her. “They’re very rude. But I’m told it’s something of a hobby. Did you really break into the Chantry just to fuck a Sister?”

“She’s a Mother now,” Hawke says mildly. “And she came to _my_ house.”

“ _Really_?” Dear Marker, Idunna has missed the gossip. It used to run rampant around the Rose, but people don’t talk like that in the Circle anymore. There are a lot of reasons. “My, that’s scandalous. Was she good?”

Hawke shrugs. “Would I kiss and tell?”

Probably. Idunna grins, the first time she’s smiled so openly in a long time. “I wouldn’t know. You don’t come around enough. I get _so bored_ , Mistress Hawke.”

“Hmm. You won’t be bored much longer.” Hawke tips her head to the side. “Your templar friend’s been skulking around Darktown. That wasn’t your doing, was it?”

Templar friend? Idunna tips her head to the side. “ _I_ wouldn’t send anyone to Darktown.”

“Perhaps its nostalgia,” Hawke muses. “You were born there, after all.”

“So were lots of people.” Idunna doesn’t scowl, though she wants to. “Which templar?”

“The Rivani one. Ser Miranda, I believe.” Hawke brings her hand up to the light, as if to examine the claws of her gauntlets. “She was asking for the coterie. And their explosives. Isn’t that strange?”

“I told her not to,” Idunna hisses. “She wanted to talk to you, but I said no. And I don’t know what she fucking wants, so don’t ask.”

Hawke snorts. “My, you’ve learned honesty in here. At least the Gallows is good for something.”

Then the dogs crash into the table suddenly, sending runes and their cloth bags flying. Idunna swears under her breath, before she can stop herself. Look at that mess. Hawke’s big war dog has Honey by her scruff, shaking her—but its playful, no teeth digging in, no real threat. Idunna sweeps up the runes with her hands. She’s getting dirt under her nails, urg. 

To her surprise, Hawke kneels down as well to help her. “Do you know what she’s going to do?”

Idunna keeps her eyes down, counting runes to make sure she hasn’t missed any. “No.”

Something tells her that Hawke does, though. 

Hawke pushes a single rune towards Idunna with a finger. A fire rune. Their hands never touch. “They’re odd things, phylacteries. So very _delicate_. The mages would smash them all if you only knew where they were….”

But a templar would know, wouldn’t she? And of course, Ser Miranda has family inside the Gallows. She’s even talked about running. There’s only one thing really keeping the mages in their cells. And if you could just smash those, well. 

That would change things, wouldn’t it?

Idunna sits back, the runes gathered in her skirts. “Explosives, was it?”

Hawke tips her head to the side. “She got her hands on some. You wanted to ask.”

Idunna nods. “Did you help her?”

“I didn’t stop her.” Hawke flicks at one of the runes in Idunna’s lap. But again, Hawke does not touch her. Not directly, at least. “She’s odd, for a templar. Not the first one to help the mages, oh no. But she’s trying to be quiet about it.”

Trying. But perhaps not succeeding? Idunna stands and puts the runes back on the table, pushing them into some vaguely circle-like shape. “She didn’t join the rebellion.”

Hawke stands and stretches, armor creaking with the motion. “Was that smart?”

“I don’t know. You killed them all.”

That much is obvious, as is the conclusion, but Idunna doesn’t want to risk saying it. 

“Not all of them.” Hawke whistles and her big dog comes running, with Honey snapping at his heels. “But I’d wonder if anyone knows what she’s doing, Lady Idunna. I’d think very hard about that.”

**

It won’t be good if Ser Miranda gets herself killed, Idunna thinks. She’s running low on friends in the Gallows, and it’s becoming very clear that the templars are bracing for war. Desperation is making people stupid, especially the mages, who have nowhere to run when things get bad. Blood is running high. 

Something bad is going to happen. It’s inevitable at this point. 

Idunna goes to see Silla, because she’s wary of being seen talking with Ser Miranda. She brings Honey with her, for protection and also a bribe. Some of the younger mages won’t talk with her at all because of the blood magic. There’s always the fear that if Idunna gets caught – or _when_ she gets caught – she’ll make a fuss and drag everyone in her orbit down with her. 

It’s not an unreasonable fear. Things like that happen all the time. Everyone remembers what happened to the Starkhaven mages, how the templars made them draw straws to pick who got to live and who was made Tranquil. Apparently that was funny. Apparently that was fucking _hilarious_.

Idunna finds Silla in same room as last time. The blood has been cleaned up and the curtains drawn back, so at least there’s some light this time. It almost looks like a different room during the day, with bunks shoved up against each other and bed sheets hung over the edges as curtains—the only privacy a mage can afford in a place like this. Silla is tucked into the corner by the window, sitting on the floor with her head tipped back, so that the sun hits her face. Her eyes are closed and ringed with bruise-like circles. Insomnia’s a common habit in the Gallows. Silla’s thick hair hangs in an unruly cloud around her face. Only her eyes can be clearly seen. 

That’s probably on purpose, Idunna thinks. She clicks her teeth, and nudges Honey towards Silla. 

The puppy ambles over to the elf, and puts her paw on Silla’s knee. She whines until Silla opens her eyes and begins to pet her. 

“Puppy,” Silla murmurs. “Hi, puppy.”

Idunna sits down on the floor, arranging her robes carefully. She doesn’t want to tower over Silla, who’s small even for an elf. That wouldn’t be a good start to things. “Are you alright?”

Silla shrugs, and lets Honey jump into her lap. She hugs the dog tight, pressing her face into Honey’s fur. 

“I’m not a healer,” Idunna says, awkwardly. How does one talk about something like this to a child? It’s one thing to discuss blood and fucking among professionals—Idunna never had a problem with that—but this is new territory, strange and confusing. “Are you still bleeding?”

“No.” Silla keeps face hidden against Honey’s fur. 

“Okay.” What else is Idunna supposed to say? She’s never been good with children. Never really wanted to be. Children are messy and loud and _expensive_ ; she’s always taken precautions to avoid letting one grow in her belly, no matter what it might bring her if the father happened to be wealthy. 

That was always a choice, though. Idunna’s choice. Silla probably didn’t have one of those. 

“Is she really your aunt?” Idunna asks finally. She doesn’t say Ser Miranda’s name, in case someone’s listening. 

Silla lifts her head up a little. Her eyes are shiny with tears, but it doesn’t show in her voice at all. “Yes.”

Does that mean that Ser Miranda has eleven blood? Idunna props her chin up on her hand. “You look like her, a little bit.”

The hair, at least, might come from the same line.

Silla gives her a faint smile, and then presses a kiss to the back of Honey’s head. “We’re not Dalish.”

“No?”

Silla shakes her head. “But when you’re half and half, you look human. You know?”

Idunna thinks about that for a moment. She doesn’t really know how that works, when one parent is an elf and the other isn’t. But she does know that the templars would never accept anyone with elven blood into their rank. “She mentioned something about her mother, one time.”

“Our mothers were sisters.” Silla closes her eyes. “It doesn’t matter.”

Maybe it wouldn’t, if they were in a different place. 

“Are they dead?”

“Yes.”

Not that surprising, in a place like Kirkwall. Nobody lives long unless they’re rich enough to live _well_. And everyone knows that elves are never rich. “How old are you, Silla?”

The girl stares at her for a long time. Just stares.

Idunna looks away first. “I’m sorry.”

Silla’s body jerks like she might laugh, but no sound comes out. She picks Honey up ever so carefully, and gives the dog back to Idunna. Then Silla curls around herself, pressing her cheek against the wall. 

Well. 

Idunna makes herself smile. Like everything is normal. “Good day, Enchanter.”

She flees before the moment can get any worse than it already has.

**

For lack of a better idea, Idunna goes to the kitchens to beg some food off the cooks. A bit of meat for Honey, something sweet for herself. Idunna tucks herself into one of the half-forgotten storage closets, squeezed in among ancient plates and jars of preserves. Things from a different time, when the Gallows might not have been quite as it is now. 

It was always a prison. But maybe once, you wouldn’t find kids bleeding out on the floors. 

Idunna presses a bit of chocolate between her teeth, letting it melt in her mouth, and wonders how she might get away with murdering a templar. 

**

Then Ser Alrik goes and dies all on his own. Officially, no one knows what happened. Ser Alrik didn’t present himself for morning muster one day, and that was that. Then, of course, someone noticed that Ser Alrik wasn’t the only one missing, that his entire squadron of mage hunters had up and vanished. How strange that was. 

Later, a patrol found a couple of bodies in templar armor hanging from a post in Darktown, beheaded and burnt beyond recognition. Whoever did it took the heads with them. The Knight-Commander screams retribution up and down the halls, but everyone knows—even though no one is _saying_ —that a mage didn’t do that. But someone who loves a mage, well. 

Idunna presses a hand to her mouth and smiles, confident that no one can see its viciousness. 

No one ever proves that Hawke has killed anyone. The whole city bows to her. 

“Such a tragic thing that happened,” Idunna tells Ser Miranda, when the templar comes to visit her. There are no card games this time. No wine either, though both of them would desperately like to drink. “You must be devastated. Losing one of your own like that.”

Ser Miranda sets her helmet on Idunna’s desk. It leaves her face bare. This is supposed to foster trust between them, since Ser Miranda can’t hide her face behind that metal. “Hmm. Yes. Tragic.”

“Was he a father?” Idunna wonders. 

“I don’t know.”

“I hope not. How would you live with something like that? Hanging from a _post_.” Idunna shivers. “Dear Maker. Imagine having to grow up under all that, knowing your father died without his head.”

“If you want to say something, mage, then say it,” Ser Miranda snaps. 

Oh? Are they being honest now? Idunna cocks an eyebrow. “I just wondered how things are allowed to happen. I mean, if your family isn’t dead, one would _think_ there’d be some…hmm. _Consideration_.”

Like not letting a _child_ get cornered by something like Ser Alrik. 

Ser Miranda’s nostrils flare, but she doesn’t move to strike Idunna. “The healers wouldn’t have helped.”

“Better than the alternative, I’d think.” Because who in their right mind sends a blood mage to fix the aftermath of a miscarriage? Especially for someone that Ser Miranda is supposed to care about. 

“It wasn’t.” Ser Miranda tips her head back, eyes on the ceiling instead of Idunna. “They would have told. About the horrible thing she did.”

Idunna frowns. “What thing?”

“Something evil. Seducing that… _man_.” Ser Miranda seems to struggle on the word. Her chin drops, eyes dark and vicious even as they cloud with tears. “Because only a _wicked_ girl would seduce such a pious templar. A blood mage. Of course.”

“She’s just a child!”

Ser Miranda grins at Idunna suddenly. “I know. And they would have killed that child rather than cast suspicion on an _officer_ , don’t be fucking _naive_ , Idunna, I don’t have time for that.”

It takes a moment for Idunna to work through all of that. She wants to deny it, stupidly, because even places like these have _rules_. If you’re good and quiet and smile at the right people, then you won’t die. If you make friends with the right templar, then you won’t get your belly stuck with children. If you—

No. 

Idunna feels her face twisting into something ugly. She presses her palm against her cheek, until she’s smiling again. Something nice and inoffensive. “Well,” she says, “then it’s good somebody killed him, wasn’t it?”

Killed him and burnt him good, oh yes. It was probably a bad death. 

Maker, Idunna hopes it was a bad death. She hopes he went down screaming. 

“You should be careful,” Idunna adds. “Or someone might kill you, Ser Miranda. I wouldn’t like that.”

Ser Miranda frowns at her. “I’m not going to die.”

“Oh, darling. Everyone dies in here.”

**

Then the Chantry burns.

Ser Miranda burns too.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke makes a point.

Somewhere between all the templar nonsense and mage-born misery, Idunna forgets that she has other problems to deal with. This is a mistake. The consistency of it all has made Idunna complacent. Because she knows how these things start, she can deal with most of them. But there are other nasty things crawling around in the world. None of them like being forgotten. It offends them so, letting something _else_ be the center of attention. 

Hawke is one of those nasty things. The only problem is that no one seems to have realized it besides the other monsters. They recognize one of their own skulking around. Everyone else just stands in awe, as if Hawke’s smile isn’t baring teeth, as if she doesn’t fucking _eat_ people.

The rumors are persistent enough that Idunna is starting to believe they’re true. Ask anyone else and they’ll laugh it off, even the people who are supposed to hate what Hawke stands for. 

Their perfect Champion. Savior of Kirkwall. There’s no way _she_ would do anything like that. 

But, no. Idunna is only a small monster, so she gets to see what Hawke is. She just can’t do anything about it. 

Sadly, she makes the mistake of forgetfulness. Idunna realizes it when the Champion comes into her room one night with a strange Dalish lantern in one hand and a knife in the other. 

“Hi,” Hawke says. 

Idunna sits up carefully, pushing herself back against the wall before she can think better of it. Honey stirs less quickly, sniffing at Idunna’s hand. “….hello,” she manages. “It’s rather late, isn’t it?”

Probably. Not that it’s stopped Hawke before. 

Idunna is very careful not to stare at the knife. It’s one of those little throwing knives, delicately balanced. Hawke keeps turning it over in her hand, making the blade flash in the lantern light. 

Hawke sets the lantern down on the floor, ever so quietly. “You told Keran something interesting.”

What’s this about Keran? He’s nothing. Just another broken fool. Idunna lifts her chin. “And what is it I’ve said?”

Hawke runs the tip of the blade across her mouth, smiling. “That you’ve never killed anyone. Tell me, sweet girl, could that be _true_?”

Idunna pulls Honey to her chest, so the dog won’t go wander off and try to sniff Hawke’s boots. Something about this feels wrong, tensions boiling just under the surface, and Idunna _doesn’t know why_. “Why would that matter?”

It shouldn’t, in the grand scheme of things. She’s done other, worse things. 

“Oh,” Hawke murmurs, eyes suddenly bright. “Then I would have been your _first_.”

“My what?” Idunna asks flatly. 

Hawke shivers with something that Idunna doesn’t want to name. The smile threatens to split her face into something more honest and decidedly full of teeth. Hawke clasps the knife in her hands and _grins_ at Idunna. “You could have killed me when we first met, if you’d only tried a little harder. And I would have been your _first_.”

She sounds happy, for whatever reason. Idunna swallows hard. “I didn’t. You were too strong.”

“I know,” Hawke agrees. “But you _tried_. It would have been like screwing a virgin. It gets easier, you know. The more you do it. Like fucking. _Just like fucking_ , only it’s _better_ , sweet girl, it’s so much better.”

Idunna fights the urge to pull the blanket up over her head and pretend this isn’t happening. “I’ve been told,” she murmurs. Hawke isn’t the only one that likes to brag. But sometimes, with the wrong person, it becomes more than just words. Sometimes they feel the need to _demonstrate_. The words are never quite enough, you see. 

It has to be real, otherwise you might as well be called a liar. 

Idunna rubs Honey’s ears just for something to focus on, something that’s real and isn’t _grinning at her_ with those teeth. 

This isn’t happening. This cannot be happening to _her_.  
Hawke slinks forward, tapping the knife against her teeth. The fang-like things made for a demon but worn by something – some _one_ – completely different. It’s almost strange that Hawke doesn’t vibrate with that manic tension that most demons do. No, Hawke is calm, despite everything, and ever so still. She smiles but doesn’t go all jittery and fragmented like a nightmare. 

In her hands, the puppy growls. Idunna tries to shush her, but Hawke only laughs. 

“You’re try so hard not to offend me,” Hawke murmurs. “No one else does that. It’s funny.”

“Well,” Idunna says, “I’m glad you’re amused. I live to please.”

Hawke tips her head to the side. She still has the knife pressed against her teeth. It has to be a warning. Idunna can’t imagine it being anything else. “I rather like you, Idunna.”

“Thank you.”

It might not be a good thing, but Idunna is going to be aggressively polite until Hawke leaves. Demure and sweet, saying just the right things and never once disagreeing. _Yes, ser. Of course, ser. Oh no, ser, you’re right._ It works on templars all the time. It ought to work on Hawke, whatever Hawke is. 

Idunna wonders if there’s a word to encompass Hawke. Then she wonders if knowing that would help. 

“I get bored sometimes,” Hawke continues. “With _everyone_. Except my friends. So I keep them. I bet you know what that feels like, when the world gets so boring you have to _break_ something.” Hawke shakes her head. “Maybe I should have kept you back then, Idunna. You could have been my friend.”

“…your friend?” Idunna manages. She wonders what Hawke thinks that word is supposed to mean. 

Hawke frowns at her. “Don’t you like my presents?”

Idunna glances down at Honey almost too quickly. “Of course. You’re very generous.”

The puppy whines. 

Hawke puts the knife away with a huff. “And now you’re _scared_. Don’t be. That’s boring. Except when it’s not, because I think you see me, Idunna. People don’t do that, you know.”

Idunna swallows hard. “What don’t they do?”

“Understand,” Hawke says breezily. “But most of the time that’s funny. You’re interesting. Not funny. I think I’d keep you if you knew how to fight, Idunna. Maybe you could learn.”

 _I can fight_ , Idunna doesn’t say. She just can’t do it the way that Hawke means, with blades and flung spells. “Do you want me?”

Hawke eyes her up and down frankly. “Of course.”

Oh. Well, that’s easier. Idunna bites her lip, eyes hooded. Getting on the right face for the moment. It would help if she had some makeup and a proper dress on, maybe even some pins in her hair that could be shaken loose at the right moment, but there’s no time for that. Idunna can improvise. “Well then.”

This she can do. It won’t be the first time she’s slept with someone who wants to kill her. Idunna happens to be very good at that. Call it a trade specialty. 

Hawke just snorts. “You’re too easy, woman.”

 _What_? Idunna scowls before she can stop herself. She takes a breath and forces her face into a harmless shape. “I don’t understand, Mistress Hawke.”

“If I wanted to fuck you,” Hawke explains, voice almost kind, “I wouldn’t _pay_ for it.”

“I didn’t ask for gold,” Idunna murmurs, lowering her eyes. She has to keep her voice nice and soft, or worse mistakes will be made. 

Hawke makes an amused sound. “You think I want to kill you. And so if you get down on your knees, then maybe I won’t. Right?”

It’s all very simple when she says it like that. Idunna takes a breath to steady herself. She’s never met someone who explains their intentions as clearly as Hawke does. She’s never met anyone who wants the things that Hawke wants, either. It doesn’t make any of this easier. “I don’t want to die.”

“Survivor,” Hawke says, with what sounds like honest approval. “You’re interesting, Idunna, but you’re not _enough_. Have you told anyone about me?”

There’s a trap there. Idunna wants to close her eyes and just hug her arms until the moment stops. She has those impulses sometimes, childish and utterly useless. She’s worked very hard to be better than that. Idunna sets her teeth and meets Hawke’s eyes. “I don’t know what you mean, Mistress Hawke.”

“You understand me,” Hawke says. “I think we could be the same if you had a little more nerve. Idunna, Idunna, you really should kill something. I bet you’d like how it feels.”

There are too many threads in what Hawke is saying, or hinting at. Idunna thinks hard, trying to figure out the best thing to say, because the wrong answer will get her hurt. And unlike the templars, Hawke sees through all of her bluster. 

Without that, Idunna is woefully short on defenses. The blood magic wasn’t enough before. There’s no reason it will be stronger now. 

“I do what I need to,” Idunna says, as steadily as she can. “Why should I kill anyone? What does that _get_ me?”

Killing Hawke back then would have been a practical choice. And it’s not like Idunna was holding the knife herself. 

She has a horrible thought then and wonders if it’s the same knife that Hawke was just playing with. 

Maker, it can’t be the same knife. Can it?

“Hmm.” Hawke knees to pick up her lantern, casting ugly blue shadows everywhere. “It would get my undying interest, sweet girl.”

“I’m no girl,” Idunna mutters.

“Maybe not,” Hawke agrees, “but you’re clever. And you could be mine. Think about that for a while, Idunna. It’s not so hard. And you know I’m better than the Circle.”

**

That’s not hard, though. Being better than the Circle. The Rose was better than the Circle. Idunna has dreams about that place almost very night. They’re not terrible dreams. There’s safety in their routineness. Everything is a scene that must be staged just so, and played to a certain script. But that’s okay, because Idunna understands herself and what must be done. 

She wakes up when she hears someone screaming.

Turns out there’s a dead man out in the hallway. Idunna pulls her robes on and steps out barefoot, nearly tripping over him. Or some of him. There are pieces. Idunna looks down, sees the white shine of exposed bone, and then promptly flees back inside. Because _hell_ no.

She slams the door shut and doesn’t come out for a long time.

**

Eventually someone comes and knocks on her door. It’s almost kind. No yelling this time. It’s a woman’s voice, muffled through the door but vaguely familiar. “Mage. Come out now.”

Idunna is sitting on the floor, bracing herself against the door as best she can. She has Honey wrapped tight in her arms and no shoes on her feet. The floor is disgustingly cold. “I didn’t do it!” she snaps. “Go away.”

They’ll find some way to blame this on her, Idunna can just tell. And it just _had_ to be outside her room, didn’t it? Oh no, _someone_ just had to go make a point and drag Idunna even further into it. It can’t be a coincidence after last night, after all the things that Hawke was whispering about. It _has_ to be her. Some point that she’s trying to make, only Idunna doesn’t know what Hawke fucking wants. 

_I get sooo bored_ , Hawke said, playing the knife point across her mouth like some sort of tease. 

Idunna clamps her mouth shut so hard her jaw aches. But she can’t scream. She will not scream. 

Hawke did this. Hawke went and killed someone and left the mess outside Idunna’s door. Who knows why? Probably just to make a point. 

Maybe just for fun, though. Like it’s a game. Idunna stifles a laugh. She can’t laugh. It would turn into something worse. _(like crying)_

She’s never been good at laughing. It ruins the game. Gives people the wrong sort of impression. For instance, that she’s gone and killed a _templar_. She recognized the armor in the few seconds that she stared at it. You can’t kill a templar in here, not like _this_. And if she laughs, if she does anything wrong, they’ll blame her for it. You don’t kill templars. You don’t do that in the Gallows. 

But it’s not like Hawke is here to take the blame; Hawke never takes the blame for _anything_. If it happens in the Circle, then it has to be a mage. It’s got to be a fucking mage, right?

Idunna presses her face into Honey’s fur, listening to the puppy whine. “Just go away!”

Someone knocks on her door again. “Open the damn door, Idunna. I know it wasn’t you.”

Ser Miranda? Idunna lifts her head slowly. 

Something thumps against the door. “No one is going to hurt you. On my word.”

That would be a lie from almost anyone else. Idunna rests her chin on Honey’s back, thinking it over. Finally she nods. Honey is almost too big to carry, but Idunna tucks the puppy against her chest as she stands, and then pulls the door open a crack. Just to look. 

Ser Miranda isn’t wearing her helmet. She frowns at Idunna, hair piled on top of her head in a tidy crown. “You had an eventful night, mage.”

“No I didn’t,” Idunna says automatically. She holds Honey as tightly as the puppy will allow. It gives her something to do with her hands other than fidget. Idunna _does not fidget_.

Ser Miranda thins her mouth. “We know it wasn’t you.”

“How?” Idunna murmurs. 

“A mage wouldn’t use a sword.” Ser Miranda gives her a flat look. “Your arms aren’t strong enough.”

Oh. So a blade did that. Idunna looks down at the floor before she can stop herself. There’s a dark stain and several long scratch marks in the stone. Armored boots, Idunna thinks. She remembers the scuffs from bar fights back in the Rose. Some of the regular idiots could never be bothered to remove their shoes. It always went on their tab before the end, and Idunna was left explaining the extra charge. Which was fun, it really was. 

Was Hawke wearing armored boots? Idunna can’t remember. Maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe it was just another templar who got fed up and decided to knife their coworker. Good old-fashioned rivalry, or something simple like that. 

Maker, Idunna hopes it was another templar. 

Idunna presses her forehead against the door, trying to keep her breathing under control. “Oh.”

“Mhmm,” Ser Miranda agrees. 

Idunna peers up at Ser Miranda through her bangs. Ser Miranda is rather tall, for a woman. “They’re not going to make me Tranquil? Or take my dog?”

“No.” Ser Miranda stares at her for a moment, as if waiting for another question. Then she just shakes her head. “It was Keran. In case you were wondering.”  
The name hangs between them, an obvious accusation. 

For a brief moment, Idunna wonders if she ought to cry right now. If it would look right. 

She says, “Oh.”

“Oh,” Ser Miranda agrees. Of course it’s mocking. 

Idunna looks away, suddenly furious at everything. “I didn’t _do_ anything.”

This isn’t her fucking fault. She didn’t like Keran, but that doesn’t mean anything. Idunna didn’t have strong feelings about the brat one way or another. He was just the breathing proof of her ruthlessness and – more importantly – her failure to become something _better_. Whatever. People die all the time in Kirkwall. There was nothing to make him different, nothing that made him _special_.

Maybe stupid Keran had a family, but Idunna doesn’t know them. 

It’s not like she asked Hawke to gut him, anyway. So it’s _not her fault_.

Idunna takes a shuddering breath. Okay. This happened. She’ll deal with it. “I suppose I should do something now. Should I cry?”

Ser Miranda just stares at her. 

Well, it was worth a try. Idunna presses a kiss to the back of Honey’s head. At least she understands the dog. The needs are simple there. Food, shelter, play. Rinse and repeat. Nothing too complicated. She doesn’t have a script for this moment. Obviously that was a mistake. Idunna will have to fix that immediately, in case it happens again.

“Do you know why?” Ser Miranda asks finally. 

“No,” Idunna says, as truthfully as she can manage. “I really don’t.”

“Hmm. Fine.”

Honey whines in her arms. Idunna bounces the dog up for a better grip. “Does anyone else know?”

“Know what?” Ser Miranda asks blandly. “Oh. You mean, who would do a thing like that? No. There is _no proof_. And you wouldn’t have any friends with grudges against Keran, would you?”

“I don’t have grudges,” Idunna murmurs. Then, more seriously: “Was it quick? He was almost decent, for a templar.”

“He suffered.” Ser Miranda doesn’t smile. “Someone cut his heart out. At least _that_ part didn’t take long.”

As for the rest of it, well.

Idunna looks away. She doesn’t need to know, doesn’t really want to either. “I wouldn’t do that.”

Maybe. Idunna really doesn’t know what she’d do if she had the power to really hurt someone. She almost ruined Keran once. Would she do it again, given the chance?

Maybe. If it got her something. This doesn’t get her _anything_ good. 

“I didn’t,” Idunna murmurs, in case someone else is listening. “I _didn’t tell her to do that_.”

Ser Miranda nods just once. 

**

The Tranquil have the mess cleaned up before long. Idunna sneaks a look at the body later, when the other templars have finished pawing at it. She looks at the chunks of meat and ruined armor lying on a canvas sheet, and tries not to sneeze at the dust. It’s a horrible combination, dust and blood. They’ve shoved the pieces into an old storage room or a cell; either way, long since out of use. Idunna peers at it all and tries to make a person out of what remains. She can’t. It’s just a bunch of meat and metal. 

Maybe he was already dead. Years dead because of what she did. This is just the body catching up with the fact. 

Isn’t that a thought? Maybe Idunna has killed someone after all. Hawke would be so proud.

Dust catches in her throat, and Idunna coughs. It hurts and she turns away before she can think too hard about any of this.

She can see teeth marks on what remains of Keran’s throat, where somebody ripped him apart. 

**

Later, Idunna goes to the library and reads up on tragedies. She focuses on the death scenes so she can memorize the proper lines, so that when this happens again, she’ll know how to mime grief and not say all the wrong things. 

What she should have said was, “Oh, _Maker_ , no.”

That would have been her cue to go pale and cry ever so prettily. Delicate little stage tears. _That_ would have been right. 

Idunna snaps the book closed and vows to get the next one right.


	4. Chapter 4

A few hours of library research later, and Idunna has mastered the art of gentle grief. The hushed sob, the longing sigh, the eyes lowered just so. She cups the little vanity mirror in her hands and goes through all the motions, until she’s sure – very sure – that no one can find fault with the performance. Everything is in the looks these days. You can remake yourself with the proper mask, if you only put in a little _effort_. Idunna knows better than to weep. She pinches her eyes shut until they shine just a little, tears fought back but never quite shed, and thinks, _this will do_. 

She didn’t especially like Ser Keran, but certain motions must be gone through in the aftermath of something like this. It’s not every day that a mage wakes up to find a dead templar sprawled by their door. Of course she is suspected, Idunna knows, but she feels safe enough not to protest too loudly. The man was killed with a sword, cut to pieces and strewn about like trash, and Idunna is very quick to draw attention to the frailty of her arms. Her, wield a sword? Perish the thought!

It’s always been better to let the world see her as weak than to let them suspect she might be clever. Idunna knows very well who killed the man, as she suspects most of the Circle does, but no one really feels like bringing up Hawke’s name in mixed company these days. So Idunna plays along and makes all the appropriate gestures of grief – not too much – so that the rest of the templars don’t look at her when they think of revenge. This proves sensible, as it takes them less than a week to retaliate. 

Being templars and at least a tad intelligent, their rage isn’t directed at Hawke. No, they do the sensible thing and go after someone who won’t destroy them just for looking. Their anger is swift and righteous, and three mages are dead in its wake. The grief of the Chantry’s finest is never denied.

Idunna presses her teeth together and doesn’t say a word. At least it wasn’t her. 

**

She sits with Alain in the library, one of the few mages willing to be seen in public with her. In a strange and slightly pathetic turn of events, he’s come crawling to Idunna for something like protection. Being the only survivor of Thrask’s rebellion, now that Keran’s been offed, has put an unofficial bounty on his head. None of the other mages are willing to risk his company, lest the rage of surviving templars be turned onto them as well. 

For her part, Idunna finds herself with less and less to lose these days. She’s running low on tradable secrets and allies, which keep her alive and in better times kept her comfortable. The latter part has since dropped off the table. War will do that to a place, and everyone knows what’s brewing on the horizon. It’s only a matter of time now. 

All things considered, she could do worse than Alain. 

Well, maybe. At least he knows how to shut up and take a beating when it comes. There’s a smattering of ugly bruises across his neck, the ghost of armored hands, and blood on the edges of his robes. But he never says a word, the perfect little mage, and goes about his business with his head firmly down. Idunna can appreciate the subtlety. She lets Alain hold Honey when she fears he might cry. It looks like sympathy and ensures that no one will bother them. 

Crying draws in the sharks. The moment blood strikes open water, they start circling. And there’s really no use in that, now is there?

Life would be much less painful if everyone else could wrap their heads around the concept.

Idunna turns a page in her book, running her fingers over the text. This one is anatomy, not specifically for mages. It explains how the body goes about its work and why the blood flows from one place to another. How the bones are structured and why, the great mysteries of the human body numbered and labeled, each part explained. Briefly, Idunna wonders how many corpses were sacrificed for the understanding. It’s sacrilege to defile bodies in some places. Things like that get you hanged. Strange that the templars would allow it here. 

Then again, maybe not. There’s no magic involved. Just a sharp knife and a strong stomach. Those seem to be requirements to join the templars these days. A blade and the will to use it. As the Maker commands, of course. 

Well, the Maker or Meredith. Whoever’s wrath seems more imminent. 

Alain holds the little dog on his lap, rubbing her ears as Honey snores. There’s a book of maps in front of him, some Fereldan monstrosity, though he’s been reading the same paragraph for at least twenty minutes. A lost cause if ever there was. 

Idunna taps the drawing of a human jawbone, all of the teeth numbered and labeled so they can’t possibly bite. “I had a thought, Enchanter.”

Alain doesn’t look up. He rarely does, these days. “What?”

“Hawke could have killed you,” Idunna says frankly. Alain needs gentle handling to stay useful, but with this Idunna can be blunt. “Any reason she didn’t?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you ask her to save you?”

“No.” Alain is quiet for a moment. “Do you think she would have?”

Answering that would involve actually knowing something about Hawke, something real. Idunna isn’t sure that she does. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“Well,” Idunna says, “if you like slaying dragons. Or being owned.”

Alain considers that. “Is that worse than being here? You were a prostitute. I mean. You’d know.”

From anyone else, it would be an unforgivable kind of insult. Alain doesn’t mean anything by it, though. He’s honest in the way that would hurt anyone else. Another term for that is blunt, or terminally stupid. Another reason the templars keep hurting him. Idunna shakes her head and goes back to her book. The diagrams of bone and blood vessels are much easier than this conversation, though it’s her fault for starting it in the first place. “I got paid much better in the Rose.”

“Oh.” Alain finally lifts his eyes, ever so slightly. He’s probably never been paid for anything in his life. “Did Hawke buy you?”

Isn’t that a funny question? Idunna shrugs. “In a manner of speaking. There was no fucking. I think it would be much simpler if she wanted to fuck me, you know. She says she finds me _interesting_.”

Much like Ser Karras once found Alain interesting, before _someone_ cut his head off and strung the corpse up in Darktown like a decorative wreath. Idunna wonders if anyone danced under it. There were a hundred whispered celebrations for the man’s death, it’d be a shame to leave out the dancing with all the decorations _right there_.

“I’m sorry,” Alain murmurs. 

“Thanks,” Idunna says, trying to keep the trepidation out of her voice. She has the sinking suspicion that he means it. 

“I didn’t attack her,” Alain continues. “Hawke. I didn’t try to hurt her. And I didn’t try to run, either. I think that’s the trick. Like with a dog. If you stand very still and don’t talk too loud, they’ll just leave you alone.”

“What would you know about dogs?”

“The templars used to set them on us in Starkhaven if we wouldn’t behave. Mongrels, really. Not true war hounds. The mabari wouldn’t stand for it.” Alain smiles down at Honey, snoring away on his lap. “They’re kind, mabari are. But I don’t think Hawke—I don’t think she _can_ be. Am I crazy for thinking that?”

Idunna thins her mouth into a line. “Well, I wouldn’t say it to anyone _else_.”

“That’s probably wise,” Alain agrees, and goes back to his book. 

***

Later that week, one of the templar’s that Idunna’s been fucking goes missing. Just ups and vanishes from his post, armor neatly racked and polished, but no templar to be found. There’s no blood, either, but that doesn’t matter as much as it ought to. A goddamn mystery. It leaves his cohorts scratching their heads, until they think to blame a mage, the traditional response to anything even slightly out of the ordinary. 

That, and Meredith’s been hissing about blood magic for months. Anyone who disagrees or doesn’t salute fast enough is beginning to look suspicious to the commander. All the more reason to jump on the bandwagon. Blame the goddamn mages. Of course it was them. 

Ser Miranda corners her in the middle of the night, helmet tucked under her arm and a lantern hanging from her belt. It looks decidedly uncomfortable, having a flame so close to one’s crotch – even if the delicate bits are covered by plate armor. “Mage.”

“Templar,” Idunna returns, sweetly. She’s curled up with her blankets and the dog, and not inclined to move. Of all the templars in the Gallows, Ser Miranda might be something of an ally. Or at least not quite so likely to beat her bloody. They’ve shared alcohol and pointed secrets. Some of the apprentices whisper that they’re married. 

The apprentices are a little fucked in the head these days. 

Still, it’s not entirely untrue. Idunna and Ser Miranda are connected in several unfortunate but undeniable ways. In the end, they understand each other too well. It keeps them from trying to kill each other, should the impulse strike. A pragmatic compromise if ever there were. Idunna knows about Ser Miranda’s precious family, and the unfortunate nature of her blood that would get her kicked out of the templars in a heartbeat – in less than that – were anyone else to find out. It would be wrong, after all, to let an elf wear the blessed sun-shield on her back. Even a bastard half-elf with flat ears. The templars like to think they have standards. It’s adorable, it really is. 

The blackmail game makes for interesting bedfellows, at any rate. But what else are they going to do in here? If they’re not going to kill each other, they might as well fuck – or make small talk. Whichever hurts the least.

This might be friendship. 

The idea is horrifying, but no more so than any of the other nightmares skulking about the Gallows. At least this one brings wine when it comes around. 

Idunna beams. “Did you want something in particular?”

The templar – her _friend_ – gives Idunna an ugly look. “You have such lovely admirers.”

Ser Miranda sways a little as she says it. It’s hard to tell in the weak light, but her eyes might be a tad swollen – tears? Say it isn’t so!

“Are you drunk?” Idunna wonders. “You started without me.”

“I have a _shield_ ,” Ser Miranda spits, as if that ought to mean something. “I am not—not like you…am _not_ ––”

“Not what?”

Ser Miranda pauses. Then promptly falls over. 

So that’s what it sounds like when an idiot in full plate armor falls on their ass. Usually the templars took their armor off before coming to the Rose. Something about property damage. Idunna flicks at Honey’s ears with a sigh. 

Apparently she’s back to policing drunk templars. Just like before. 

Idunna removes the lantern from Ser Miranda’s belt before the glass can shatter and send oil and flames dancing everywhere. She’s polite like that. The templar swats at her with a grunt, but can’t seem to manage words or a proper threat. Well and truly smashed. 

This would be hilarious if it were happening to anyone else. Literally anyone else. 

Sometimes Idunna thinks the Maker hates her. 

“This belongs to me now,” she tells the dog, and sets the lantern down next to her cot. “Along with that fool.”

Honey sneezes. 

If Hawke can _own_ people – gather them up like precious stones and cut them into whatever shape she fancies – then perhaps Idunna will do the same. It seems to work for the Champion. 

Idunna admires her reflection in Ser Miranda’s plate armor – so very shiny – and waits for the templar to sober up enough to manage a full sentence. It takes a while. The lantern oil has burned low by the time that Ser Miranda manages to groan and push herself upright, rubbing at her face and wincing at the cuts her gauntlets raise.

“At least you didn’t throw up in your helmet,” Idunna offers. More pointedly, Ser Miranda wasn’t sick on _her_. There were a few close calls. “You smell like a tavern. Did you bring me any?”

Ser Miranda glares. She has snot smeared across her face. “Another one. _Dead_.”

“Another _what_?” Idunna snaps, suddenly tired of playing nice. It’s well past midnight, and she never did like fussing with drunken fools. 

It’s stupid, of course. With her luck, Ser Miranda will discover that hidden temper of hers and let it loose, then forget the Gallows rules and leave her gauntlets on. 

Idunna already had her face reshaped. She doesn’t believe in second chances when it comes to head injuries. Mother always said that temper would be the end of her. 

“Dead in the back,” Ser Miranda continues on, eyes wide and red-rimmed, wild with tears. She doesn’t seem to notice Idunna. “In the store room with the barrels, Idunna, _did you tell her to do that_? She left me his hands in a bag, then she gave me explosives. I don’t—I am _not_ like this!”

It takes a moment for Idunna to understand. Then she smiles. 

Hawke’s been on the move again. Killing templars has become her hobby and oh how she practices, oh how she _perfects_ the art. Getting better and a little grander each time, the little showman. And now she’s roped nosey Ser Miranda in, no longer a player lurking in the shadows but pulled straight onto the board and right under the Maker’s righteous glare. 

What fun. What glorious fun. 

Idunna presses two fingers to her smile, so her teeth won’t show. “You did a bad thing, didn’t you?”

Ser Miranda snarls something wordless at her, slapping the floor with pointless rage. All it does is leave scars on the wood. 

“Don’t be a child,” Idunna mutters. “She killed someone? So what? She kills lots of people. I hear the Maker approves. At least it wasn’t your precious cousin.”

“Don’t!” Ser Miranda points a finger at her. “Do _not_ —”

This time Idunna does bare her teeth, enough that it makes her face ache. “Was he a good man? They all are, deep down, when they’re breaking us, they’re _good men_. I hope he fucking suffered.”

For a moment, Idunna thinks that Ser Miranda is going to hit her. Then she thinks the templar might scream, which is worse. This is the sort of honesty that burns cities to the ground. It has no place in the Gallows, where demons listen in and _laugh_.

Instead Ser Miranda just stares at her, then says, “Yes.”

Idunna narrows her eyes suspiciously. “What?”

“He suffered. Probably. It’s hard to tell when they’re in pieces.”

Well that’s just comforting, isn’t it? Idunna sits back with a huff. “Remember the part where it _wasn’t you_?”

That’s the only thing that really matters, in the end. 

Ser Miranda snarls something under her breath. 

Idunna just glares. “You knew what you were, _templar_. You knew what they’d make you do the moment you signed up, so don’t fucking pretend this is a _surprise_. At least you’re still alive.”

At least Ser Miranda’s cousin isn’t still stuck with some templar’s child in her belly, or dead from the blood loss and shoved into some forgotten grave to keep the rest of the ghosts company. Things could _always_ be much worse. The trick is to make sure someone else stands in the fire. Burn a stranger, live another day. Simple. 

Someone has to bleed, after all. The Maker demands sacrifice. 

Idunna huffs. “Well?”

Ser Miranda is staring at her. Drunk and pathetic. “Anyone else would kill you for saying that.”

“Can’t work up the nerve?” Idunna wonders, genuinely curious. 

Ser Miranda shakes her head. Nerves – or lack thereof – don’t seem to be the issue here. The problem, Idunna thinks, is that Ser Miranda wants desperately to be honorable, but finds herself too damn smart to let herself fall for the standard issue bullshit. A tragedy if ever there were. The Gallows isn’t a place for good, honorable people. The Gallows is a place where the monsters come out and try wearing human skin for a change. 

It would be better, Idunna thinks, if Ser Miranda didn’t look human. If her ears were pointed, her face a touch sharper. That way, she wouldn’t be able to pretend and get confused about where the lines had been laid. 

Under different circumstances, Idunna might enjoy fucking the confusion out of her. 

“ _Well_ ,” Idunna murmurs, when no violence seems eminent, “I hope you hid those explosives. Along with the ones you stole earlier. Wouldn’t want those going off, would we?”

Ser Miranda gives her an ugly look. 

“Hawke just gave them to you, did she?”

“A gift, she said.”

Ah, so it was. Idunna rolls her eyes. “Ever notice how all her gifts tend to have strings attached?”

Even so, she curls her hand through Honey’s collar. There are strings with the dog as well, though none that Idunna wishes to discuss – least of all with a templar, even a half-elf bastard like Ser Miranda. Just because a gift comes with _consequences_ doesn’t mean you can refuse it. Before the dog, Idunna had no leverage in the Gallows except for the sympathy of whoever she happened to be fucking – nothing tradable, nothing to keep her sane at night when the templars forgot she existed. When the alternative is going mad, then you damn well make a deal with a monster. 

She thinks Ser Miranda might understand that, actually. 

The templar wipes her face, wincing at the mess. “Did I throw up on you?”

“You came close to it a few times,” Idunna tells her sweetly. “The explosives?”

Ser Miranda grunts. “Hidden.”

“Where?”

The templar gives her a nasty look. 

“I’m not much help if you won’t tell me,” Idunna points out. 

“I’ll risk it,” Ser Miranda mutters. “I couldn’t place them. Not _yet_. Too many eyes.”

“I’m sure the wine didn’t help,” Idunna points out. She really can’t help it. With all she puts up with, Ser Miranda can survive a few pointed observations. It’s only the truth, after all. Even the Maker can’t disapprove of _that_.

Ser Miranda grunts. “Soon.”

Idunna blinks. “What?”

“Very soon, mage. I hope you’ll be ready.”

Oh. Well then. 

Idunna inclines her head towards the lantern, burning weakly next to her cot. “This is mine now. Oh, did you know the apprentices say we’re married? What do you think of that, wife?”

Ser Miranda bares her teeth at Idunna, not at all playful. “Then you’d best be clever, _wife_ , or they’ll kill us all. It will not be for nothing. I won’t allow it.”

The Maker doesn’t care what you allow, Idunna doesn’t say. She smiles instead, ever the professional, and places a kiss on Ser Miranda’s sweaty cheek. The woman smells like vomit and cheap ale, utterly disgusting, but Idunna doesn’t let that show. She flicks her nails against Ser Miranda’s pointed jaw, and then kisses her on the mouth. 

Perhaps its not so surprising that Ser Miranda lets her. She even tips her head ever so slightly to kiss Idunna back. 

Even with the taste of vomit and sour ale, it’s not so bad. 

“You taste horrible, wife,” Idunna murmurs. “You’d best not die.”


End file.
